All Hail the Queen
by Magic Flying Spud
Summary: Twelve years after the events of the show, Kim Possible and Ron Stoppable move to New York City and start up a detective agency. Things run smoothly for them, at least until Señor Senior Sr. passes on and Bonnie Rockwaller takes control of the Senior Crime Family. Worlds collide and an old flame reignites.
1. The Pinstripes Are All That They See

"Hey dude! You can't just barge in here without an appointment — _seriously_!"

Motor Ed nearly knocks over a fat stack of paperwork rushing out of his chair, body cramped in his tiny New York City office. He leans forward and catches his stumbling accountant before his head smashes into the papers and makes it worse. The shaggy bearded accountant shoves his thick, insect-like glasses up his rather large schnoz and stutters, "I — I — I tried Ed! I tried to tell the guy to go away but he didn't listen, honest!"

"Seriously?" Motor Ed's gnarly mustache droops.

"Seriously," a high voice snarks from the doorway.

Silhouetted by the light from the lobby, the man props a foot up against the door frame, hand arching like a swan's neck over his head to scoop off the fedora, revealing a bushel of golden yellow hair. "He tried real hard, but nothing stops the Unstoppable. Heh."

"No way man," Motor Ed scrambles back. "That's — this is impossible!"

"Impossible you say?" the man flicks the light switch besides him, finally illuminating his pale face. Not the same boy from twelve years ago, he's well-built with only a fraction of his former pot belly. His freckles have aged away into rougher skin, with less of a gourd for a head to boot. Though he's still got that mean gamer's slouch. "You should talk to my friend about that."

Ron Stoppable spins his fedora around his finger before presumptuously lobbing his fedora onto Ed's desk. He pulls the lapels out to his tan trench-coat, sauntering over to Ed and his accountant like some badass. His knees kick up the tail of the coat, briefly showing the same old baggy cargo pants get-up from the old days, and it's not hard to see the familiar black sweater underneath the coat either. "We've been watching you for a long time, Ed. Just waiting for you to crack, to make a mistake, and hey credit where credit's due, right? You did good. But then you hired Francis Lurman two months after Frugal Lucre broke out of prison."

The bespectacled accountant steps forward, hairy arms sliding out past the cuff links. "Frugal Lucre, huh?! I don't know that gu! Yeah, see? I'm Francis Lurman you palooka, what's it to ya?"

Ron forces a laugh that he then holds back behind square teeth. "Dude, did you really think that we would forget that _Frugal Lucre_ was just a moniker and not actually your legal name?"

"Ha," Frugal Lucre laughs despite his paling cheeks. He runs a big hand through his tangled knots of hair. "Whoopsie doodle then. Ha ha. I mean, I _am_ pretty forgettable. I figured it'd slide."

"Yeah, well — uh — so what?!" Motor Ed spits out frantically, roughly shoving Lucre back into Ron's arms. "I didn't know it was him I swear! You got nothing on me youze mugs! Seriously!"

Ron licks his lips and quickly handcuffs the wriggling Lucre from behind. Ron's about to compliment Ed for being such a swell guy, rememberin' his name and all, but a little nippin' from under his jacket and into his ribs reminds him that he's gotta be a tough guy right now. "Uh huh yeah, well, last night, there was a robbery at the New York Annual Auto Show and I think you'd really like the performance the thief put on for our audio capture."

Ron gently pushes against Lucre's shoulders, sending him crashing to his knees. He smirks and dips a hand deep into his coat, pulling out the Ronnunicator and clicking a button. The sound of a beefy man (poorly) playing the air guitar plays. Ed sucks his lip while Ron's eyes dart back and forth until the grand finale of the sad excuse for a guitar solo, then promptly shuts the thing off.

Motor Ed rips his chair from the floor and whirls it over his desk. It soars and splinters into dust and wood chips over Ron's braced elbows, Ed quickly rummaging through his desk to grab onto a piece. By the time Ron's recovered, he's got a gun trained right between his eyes.

"You _seriously_ wanna go this route, Ed?" Ron smirks, hands falling back into his pockets. He doesn't even bat an eye.

"Seriously!" Motor Ed growls, voice spiking in pitch. Since when was this guy so calm? Ed remembered him acting like a freak! He takes one long step towards his window.

"Uh oh," Ron purses his lips. "So we're doing this."

Immediately the sleeves to Ron's admittedly over-sized trench-coat wave, the bumps rising and falling from his shoulders to his wrists like wavelengths. When he pulls his hands free, wisps of blue light empty from the cuffs, pluming into the air.

Motor Ed shrieks higher than he's ever air guitared and whips around, throwing himself through the air and into the window which promptly shatters.

The last of the blue light comes out and Ron grabs his Ronnuicator once again. "Yo. We got a runner."

Motor Ed takes the impact of his fall with the brunt of his iron-knit bicep, rolling against the gravel and managing to hit the ground running. His graying mullet waves frantically from his jaunty sprint, sweat spilling down onto his sweet mustache. He runs a glove to his forehead and breathes a sigh of relief that Mystical Monkey Nightmare Stoppable isn't coming for him.

But someone else is. By the time Ed notices the shadow trailing after his scrambling legs, it is far too late to slip away.

A body slams into him like a truck, pancaking him flat against the gravel, face steaming through the bits of rock. He feels knees grind against the small of his back, quickly flipping to the flat side of legs, toes digging into his kneecaps. The figure leaps off of him and he just manages to crane his neck up to catch their descent.

She lands nimbly, body not even faltering or flinching from the impact. She grins and brushes auburn locks away from her worn, green eyes. She smiles.

"Did someone say my name?"

"No, uh, I just said _impossible_ I think, I mean that's not a name it's — " Motor Ed's pupils shrink at the realization. She hasn't been on his tail for more than ten years now, so strange that she's now as adult as he is. " — oooooooh. I get it."

"Yep," Kim Possible steps forward, a thick tweed overcoat buttoned over a violet tunic and form fitting black pants. She smirks with youthful spry that betrays the small wrinkles under and around her eyes, and sets the brim of her tweed cap at a tilt. "So how are we doing this Eddy? Easy? Hard? I'm down for a grudge match if you can throw down."

Motor Ed checks his surroundings and stumbles into a sprint, arm lifted high over his head, uvula vibrating with his classic war cry (or shriek), "_SERIOOOOOOOUSLYYYYYYYYY!"_

Kim rolls her eyes and doesn't even drop into a fighting stance, just leans back and avoids the downswing that Ed somehow expected to crack open her head. Her knee shoots up, hands still plowed into his pockets, and nails him right in the chin. He stumbles back, one dirty fist wiping the crimson stain from his 'stache, the other hitting his belt, grabbing for a gun.

Her eyes narrow and she makes one long stride for, still poised as a nun, and kicks the gun clean out of his grip. It soars high into the air and her smirk only sharpens. He screams and swings again, but she just twists around it as if slipping through a tightly knit pack of pedestrians, and leaps into the air, legs clamping around Ed's thin waist.

Her hands release themselves from the pockets and clasp over her head. She takes in a deep breath and smashes him in the forehead. He stumbles back again and she bends so far back that the tips of her fingers actually reach the ground. Her legs spring off, knocking him into even more stumbling, and she flips back to her feet and snags the gun right out of the air as it passes by. She turns it over and breaks it apart like a wishbone, disassembling it into pieces and moving into an unwavering advance.

Motor Ed actually crouches down a little too deep for Kim's tastes, and it makes her sad. She _really_ wanted him to go for the hard way, but it's amateur hour apparently. So she waits. By now she's supposed to have ripped off the tweed crap because she's so hot in the damn thing, but she doesn't really mind. She drums her fingers against her hips, waiting for the loon to snap and finally he does.

He comes in swingin', fists snapping at the air like snakes. She lets him throw a few out so he can regain some confidence, and then retorts even faster. Her flat palms smack his limbs like flies, and she moves in so fast you would need to have recorded it on video to really get her movements. She pirouettes to his side, just avoiding a crack at the skull, and grips him by the shoulders, fingers wedging deep to bone.

Her hips crack back, her feet plant hard, and she slams Ed against the ground. He writhes to grab at her but she flows right from the throw to a crunch, fist nailing him in the flat face and that's game. He goes limp and she fishes his limps out from under his prone form and cuffs him fast.

A thump from behind her and she turns to see Ron stepping away from the grapple line he must have dropped down. Both of their coats trailing along with the wind, it's quite the scene.

"Is he unconscious KP?" Ron asks.

Kim shrugs and holds up a finger, stooping down to kick Ed one last time in the cranium. She looks back up at Ron. "So how did it work out, Inspector Gadget?"

"Ha ha," Ron laughs wryly. "Hey Rufus. Coast is clear."

A single bump pops up in the trench-coat, sliding fast up Ron's arm until it emerges on his shoulder. The panting pink rodent leans up against Ron's cheek and shakes his head in a tizzy. "Nyugh! Sweaty!"

Kim giggles and scoops Rufus off Ron's still sloped shoulders. "Can I see?"

"Huh? Oh! Yeah, of course, KP," Ron grips the edges of his coat, fluttering it high over his head, stretching the sleeves out to reveal a peculiar gadget. Spring-loaded metal tracks run along both sides of his arms, fans clipped on at the wrist. He gives one a squeeze and blue smoke puffs out. "They fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Super badical."

"Spankin'," Kim pats him on the back. "I told you losing your powers was no big. Hey, can you lug Ed up for me? It's more 'in-character' for you to do it."

Ron raises an eyebrow, protesting even though he knows he's already lost this one. "Well, I mean, Lucre's unconscious, I don't think it matters that we keep up appearances — "

His lips purse when two of Kim's fingers gently slid up against him.

"Lucre will be awake by the time you're up. Promise."

* * *

By the time Ron hauls his ass back up the grapple line with Motor Ed precariously strewn across his shoulders, Lucre is up and at 'em just like Kim promised. Bushy beard soaked with water, Ron can only imagine how the scrawny chump returned to the light.

"Oh! Oh!" Lucre cheers at the sight of Ron. "I was hoping you'd come back! Get this! Get this! She — ah, Kim! Kim doesn't know — doesn't know about — ah — ah — "

"Jeez, one sec dude," Ron rolls his eyes, ramping Ed off his back like a dump truck. He brushes himself off and snatches his fedora back from the desk. "What's up?"

Lucre tries jerking himself to his feet, but his wrists crack against the pole he's now tied to and he rubber bands back into the metal harder than Mario Kart 64 AI. "I'm tryna tell her that I'm gonna be your Fredo!"

Kim looks to Ron for help. "I don't know what that is."

Ron tuts, waggling his finger. "Kim, Kim, Kim. This is why I keep telling you we need to watch _The Godfather Part II._"

"I didn't like the first one," Kim shrugs. "The wedding scene was too long."

Ron shakes his head and looks very intentionally to Lucre. "_Fredo_ betrays Michael in Part II. That's what Lucre is saying. He's gonna be our li'l mole."

"Oh no Fredo," Kim frowns, but nevertheless looks to Lucre eagerly. "What's the sitch, dirt bag?"

"Dirt bag? Ouch," Lucre's frown sinks so deep it falls under his beard. "I got intel for yas. But you gotta let me go, ya get?"

"Tsch, no!" Kim giggles, running a hand through Lucre's hair, gently manipulating his head like some kind of doll. "Nice try, though. Let's see — are you wanted internationally or just in this country? It's been a minute."

"What? You don't remember my capers?" Lucre's frown sinks even more and his mouth almost vanishes behind the patchy beard. "I'm international, boyo."

"Got it, so you're Global Justice's bag. Ron, do you think we can…"

"Yeah yeah," Ron groans. "I'll talk to Will. But first Lucre, you gotta make like Fredo or you might have to be careful next time you go fishin'."

Lucre's butt dances with glee and he starts to ramble, but Kim's hand slaps the air. Her eyebrow twitches, "Can we please amp it down on the pop culture references right now?"

Ron and Lucre both frown but agree. Lucre somehow finds the same pep and goes into his schpeel. "Listen, pals. I might be Moto Ed's accountant, but that's just my _side_ hustle. Really, I work for the _Seniors_. Yup yup."

Both Kim and Ron blink at that. Kim furrows her brow and leers at him as if to call his bluff.

"Heh heh, didn't expect ol' Lucre to work so close to the Angels of Death of New York? Well I did. I'm their li'l money guy. I crunch numbers and they pay me — handsomely. Now, get this, right? I got a little invite to a little shindig in Manhattan today, and because _Se__ñ__or Senior Sr._ — just noticing what a mouthful that is, but hey, who am I to talk about mouthfuls? — liked me so much, I got a +1 to boot! Reach into my pocket. C'mon. Do it. Be amazed by my illustrious big dog hustle time."

Kim does so and pulls out a very pristine envelope. She hastily rips it open and slides out the invite, eyes widening at whatever it says.

"What is it KP?" Ron cranes his neck over.

Kim gently shoves him off and folds the envelope into her pocket. "We have to get across town in like 15 minutes. Ron, we're going to need transpo, can you — ?"

"Double whammy for Will?" Ron frowns. "Fine. But KP, once you finally settle down with a nice young lady, they better have some power to toss around because I'm gonna wanna pull favors too. Y'know like ah — _makin' an offa you can't refuse._"

Ron winks and looks very intentionally to Lucre, as if Kim is a dummy who doesn't stand a chance catching that reference. Kim growls and slides onto her knees, peering deep into Lucre's soul with cold, dead eyes. He blinks and tries to shift away, but her hands slap against his rough beard, pulling him in.

Lucre sweats, wishing he could tug on his shirt collar or something. "Hey, hey, kid, I — uh, don't look at me like that, okay!? Whaddya doin'? C'mon! You're making this awful weird, Kim."

Kim suppresses her chuckle and dives her lips into his his, plastering him with a kiss so intense it tightens her face into hard lines of rage, almost like she's screaming down a funnel. She pulls herself free, eyes livid and alive, and whispers, "_I know it was you._"

"Wha — wha — " Lucre rambles.

Ron repeats the same fumbly-wumblies. "Wha — wha — "

"Frugal, you broke my heart," Kim's voice cracks through her chest down to the rib cage, entire self splintering from grief. "_You broke my heart!_"

Lucre's lips move together but no sounds come out, his eyes beady and petrified. Kim laughs and whispers with the cadence of toes gently crossing shards of glass. "That's just what Bonnie will say to you when she finds out…" and before Lucre can protest or sweat anymore bullets, she strikes him across the face and he slumps back into unconsciousness.

"Wow…" Ron frowns from far off. "KP, I didn't know you…" He grabs his jaw as is he can't finish the sentiment. So Will Du finishes for him.

"_I thought you didn't know Godfather Part II_," Will says in the same frosty demeanor..

Kim shrugs it off, flinging an elbow onto Ron's shoulders and leering over the Ronnunicator. "_AFI Top 100 Lines_ or something. Ron does brush me up on pop culture every now and then. So how about that jet?"

Will rolls his eyes. "_Well, that's a tall order — you need it in ten? I'm not pulling strings for __**amateurs**__ like —_ "

" — that's not what you called me last night, Will," Ron purrs.

Will immediately coughs and rubs his nose, noticeably looking away the screen and off at something surely more interesting. He mutters something about jets and begins to smash away at some keys. "_Be ready in five,_" he finally clips.

"Booyah, thanks Willie," Ron chuckles.

"Stoppable, my name is a _pun_, it doesn't work if it's Will_ie _— "

Ron continues as if his boyfriend didn't say anything. "Yo bee-tee-dubs — Lucre just did us _amateurs_ a solid. Can you make sure Betty trims some time off his sentencing?"

Finally Will smiles. "Only if we try that _thing_ I was telling you about last night."

Now Ron is scarlet. Kim looks between the two men, "I almost don't want the jet now. Um. Play safe tonight boys."

"Oh my God," Will groans and immediately signs off.

Five minutes later, the two detectives are on a Global Justice jet, blazing across the city. Ron kicks back in his chair. "So what's the occasion KP? Are we good in business formal? Do I need my wackadoodle gadgets?"

Lights dawn in Kim's eyes. "Oh shoot, you're right! Dammit, I can't wear this — " she stretches out the tweed with an immense frown. " — um, I mean, I don't want to make it look like we're investigating them or anything because um… you know?"

Ron catches the pink crawling into Kim's cheeks, wondering if she's like cold or something. "Not really, KP, sorry." But then he remembers the pretty face Kim is probably worried about upsetting. "Ooh, you don't want to antagonize BonBon, yeah?"

Kim almost avoids eye contact, but she yields and spins to face him. "Yeah. I mean — we're _so_ not happening — like, ancient history and all that, but the last thing I want to do is hurt her. Especially today of all days, I'm sure Bonnie's feeling really sad."

"Sad?" Ron raises an eyebrow. "I didn't know she was capable — ow!"

He rubs his bicep where Kim playfully slapped him.

"Ron," Kim yanks out the hair tie and lets her locks fall past her shoulder, delivering one of her own serious faces. "It's a _funeral_."

* * *

Monique is a very busy tailor, working her small boutique solo, and can't afford time to look at the door when the bell chimes at the entrance of a guest. When it chimes this afternoon, her hands are occupied doing touch-ups to the jumpsuit of a lean balding man with a sharp goatee. She hears the _click clack click clack_ of a very particular set of heels, and then silence when the door closes on its own.

Something about the silence, the presumptuous pause that Monique is meant to use to say hello, tells her who this is. So without looking up from the man's shoulder, she whispers into his ear. "Come back in a half hour, I'll knock off a hundred for you. 'Kay?"

The man sneers to her at first, grumbling things he ought to not say in front of the woman who can rectify his fashion disaster, but when he pulls away he catches himself, eyes falling on the infamous Bonnie Rockwaller, scourge of New York City. He completely forgets his anger and performs a bow so deep his schnoz nearly knocks the floor, and jumbles out the door, flipping the _Open_ sign to _Closed_.

Bonnie snickers to herself, still remaining perfectly still. Outfitted in a ghastly black, the gown just skims her ankles, smooth along the tanned legs. A wide-brim hat rounded out by a veil, brown hair still shaped into the bob from her adolescence, she just needs an overly large handkerchief to sob into.

Gloved fingers peel back the veil and she can't help but flash her canines.

"Can you believe what this tailor made for me? So on-the-nose, right?"

Monique elects to ignore that, jabbing her hands deep into her hips, chest puffed out. "You have a lot of nerve to show your face around here, girlie."

"I do have a lot of nerve, thank you," Bonnie observes her delicate wrist, cloaked in a glove that runs past the elbow. "It's what's gotten me this far. But really, today is celebration not a funeral. Have you heard the latest?"

"I've plugged out," Monique says very dryly.

Bonnie ignores that, or maybe even relishes in it — it's hard to say with her — and reaches into her purse, fishing about for some time. She licks her lips and plucks out a stack of bills so thick that they fit perfectly in the crease between index and thumb. "I want you back on my team, Mon."

Monique takes several fast steps forward, nose almost passing through the veil. She bites into her lip and roughly whips the hat from Bonnie's head, dropping it to the floor. "You shouldn't have ghosted me like that then, _BonBon_."

"What is this — high school?" Bonnie doesn't flinch as her hair shifts from the swipe, but she does pinch her fingers together and wheezes, "_I'm making you an offer you can't refuse._"

Things remain so still between the two women, yet as much as Monique's cold gaze attempts to spark the tension, Bonnie remains colder. The wrinkle along her upper lip is smarmy, confident, like someone who can read the future.

"I missed you," Bonnie finally says, the teal eyes momentarily widening, the voice hitching into a younger register.

"You say missed like _this_ is enough," Monique growls, face drawing dangerously close to Bonnie's dry lips.

"It'll have to do because _BonBon_ just became a very powerful woman. Now — " she falls back into a husky growl. " — take the money."

Monique allows herself a little smile…

… then spits right onto Bonnie's cheek.

Still locked into position like a statue, the spit strikes the cheek and reflects white spots under the warm lights, hanging to the spot like mold. The smallest crinkle of a smile, and her hand spirals around the wad of cash, propping them up only to fall evenly into her palm. She looks at Monique expectantly, and Monique reluctantly taking them, rolling through them past her flared nostrils.

S_mack! Smack! _go the bills, smashing like bricks into Bonnie's jaw, no hesitation of play. But the Rockwaller Again, the Rockwaller handles herself with poise. Doesn't flinch, almost even turns the other cheek to lean in. Only smiles underneath the brief veil of green flickering over her lips.

The money crashes to the floor and Monique's pointed stiletto jabs into them, kicking them off to the side of the room. Another step forward and the women are so close, not even the foolhardiest of men could dare to cut in and steal one for a dance. Monique's jaw works up as if building into another gob of spit, but finally, the tailor breaks into a smile and splays her hands out, bobbing in to kiss Bonnie on both cheeks. _Mwa. Mwa_.

Like sparks lighting the wood. Bonnie's shoulders slowly fall back into what is natural, but there's still a clenching in the heart. This was once a game and is now business. She can't pay it any mind, though something forlorn lives within the retracting irises.

"We're good now," Monique muses. "Though if you wander into my bed again and pull that shit — "

Bonnie's jaw almost pops. " — we just won't fuck. Probs not the best call."

Monique lowers her eyes and searches her hip satchel for measuring tape, shifting against Bonnie's back and running the tape 'round the mourning woman's waist. Hot electric touches, almost like a test, but Bonnie stays still for the sake of the numbers' accuracy.

Monique smiles because she knows what she's doing. "You and Junior finally committing to each other?"

"No," Bonnie sticks her nose in the air with an elegance that just suits her. "But being together has its uses. Similar wants, you know? Like Bill and Hillary Clinton. Which makes you…"

"Moniqu_a Lewinsky_," Monique shakes her head. "Very funny, BonBon."

Bonnie doesn't react, but does shimmy around the tape as it hugs her waist. "I was going to say the Senior Family Tailor."

Monique almost slips and knocks her head into Bonnie's ribs, but thankfully maintains composure. "Oh! Um. Are you sure you can make a call like that? I thought you were just a figurehead. No offense."

"Didn't you hear?" Bonnie looks at the ceiling, letting her arms droop lazily. "My father in law kicked the bucket and I'm feeling pinstripes today."

"So a pantsuit?" Monique snorts, then quickly catches herself. Looks at Bonnie as if seeing her for the very first time. "Oh shit. You really _are_ Hillary."

"Mhm," Bonnie holds her teeth together, and in a sing-song voice says, "_I'm with her…"_

Monique offers a dry smile then finally finishes processing. "Oh fuck, does that mean I need to make an ensemble for Junior? His proportions are so hard to work with."

Bonnie coughs into her hand, quickly pinching her lips to remain ladylike. "Yes, ahem, you will. If you put a feather in his fedora though, it'll keep him very happy and on the sidelines where I want him — ha, I'm being a little too transparent."

Monique grins. "It's fine. I caught the vibe. Um. Bonnie. When you say _family_ do you mean you and Junior or do you mean — " she trails off at the dark look in Bonnie's eyes. Hands clench a little, and then she readjusts the measuring tape.

Bonnie raises her hands high into the air, her eyebrows following their trajectory.

"Welcome to the family."


	2. What Have I Ever Done To You

Ron Stoppable is so used to slumming it off of rice and beans every night in his cramped studio apartment with Kim that he often forgets there are people his age who live far more extravagantly. When his neck cranes up to take in the full visage of Señor Senior Sr.'s mansion, his eyes rapidly scan for any detail that could tell him the castle is just a giant cardboard cut-out and no one actually lives there. It reminds him somehow that he forgot it was his turn to put the dried kidney beans out to soak today.

"Ron Stoppable. You old so-and-so, I had no idea you were a friend of the family!"

There's a pep to this gruff voice that brings Ron about thirteen years back. He looks down and carefully makes eye contact with his old friend, Felix Renton. Far younger than he looks now, streaks of gray through his pointy locks, buzz-cut off the sides of his scalp. His apple-like cheeks are now gaunt, and with them carry a long scar trailing down the left cheek, so deeply entrenched into flesh that it rumples the curves into something haggard. Healmost reads as an eagle at first. What with his laser focused peepers and such. Weighed down by a pinstripe suit from an era Ron long thought was since past, Felix gently raises an aged palm.

"Oh, uh, yeah, plus one and all that," Ron rubs his neck, too distracted to catch the handshake before Felix gently withdraws it to his pocket. "Hey, when Kim catches up, would you mind letting her in? She just wanted to change before… um."

Felix's wiry eyebrow rises high, and for a second Ron thinks his former best friend is about to blow a gasket, but instead the man erupts into a boisterous laughter, cheeks glowing. Ron titters along because he's not really sure what the dealio is here.

After the Lowadian Invasion, Felix moved to MIT to pursue a career in cyber-technology. By the time Kim and Ron hatched the scheme to move to NYC together, Felix had scored an internship under Kim's father, and that's the last Ron heard of him, or to be real — thought of him.

His sudden appearance shocked Ron so much that he honestly passed him off as some kind of chauffeur — but that crackling laugh of his hints at something much more sinister.

Considering he _is_ at the funeral of one of the most illustrious crime lords in recent history. Perhaps it's a _family_ affair.

Felix remains fixed to his wheelchair, arms wide and imposing, a bit of a potbelly gathering above the waistline. It's one of those moments where Ron remembers that not only is he thirty years old, everyone else is too. Though he only knows that Felix is thirty because of their history, otherwise he'd be guessing a lot higher.

"What am I, Ron? Your chauffeur? Ha! What's the sitch you goon?" Felix asks, stroking a tear from his eye. The smile is winning, but the sentence itself is very awkward. Strained. Like he's trying to work Ron a little. "I thought you and Kim broke up, why would you bring her as your date?"

Ron opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it when he catches that hard gaze.

Felix continues in a drawl, "Tell me I'm wrong, Ron, I really would like to be. Because my only other guess is that you're here with Kim because of your _work_. In which case I'd be very disappointed."

Felix's mouth folds back into something so perfectly still and wry. It kinda throws Ron off a little. Felix catches Ron's discomfort, and the corner of his mouth previously reserved for drawling twists into an even uglier smirk. "You can maybe fool some of the others, Ron, but not me. So don't you dare waltz in there and poke around like your kind often does; you may have changed the name on the invite but I know that address by heart. It's for Frugal Lucre."

* * *

A rumple plumes down the canopy, bunching up into what appears to be a human form before evening back out into the flat overhang. Though the movement is fast, almost like a lurch in the wind, so it passes by unnoticed. While everyone else mingles and drinks under the protection of the shade, yards above Kim Possible balances her entire body over her hands, bent into one of the four wooden posts keeping the canopy afloat.

Kim very gently cranes her body back down, carefully slipping a heel onto the post besides her, legs falling deep into a split. She brings herself back up and looks over the crowd below. Lots of familiar faces, but many more of those that are unfamiliar. She knew the Seniors were big, but she never imagined them being this illustrious. This worldly. But she's been a little out of touch from t_hat_ lately.

Even the Oh Boyz are here, playing a very somber mix of their classic song, _Hello Hello Hello._ Though the former boy band retired several years ago, they're dressed to the nines as if nothing happened. Though it's just uncomfortable enough to spot the brief lapses where they fall out of sync. Kim can only assume they were paid handsomely to reunite as a little prop for this one exclusive performance.

Probably Junior's idea. Highly doubtful Señor Senior Sr. stated in his last will and testament that his son's favorite boy band should perform at his funeral…

...regardless, Kim scans the crowd fast. No sign of Bonnie, really, no sign of anyone she'd like to talk to. Aside from maybe Nakasumi-san and his assistant, Miss Kyoko. Though that's a stretch and a half; she tries to avoid acquaintances from the old days whenever she can, given the all-encompassing media circus that's left her clueless as to how people actually feel about her throwing in the towel.

It's fine really, sneaking in to avoid something _awkward_, while excessive, is still an undeniably solid use of her skillset.

Kim rolls off of the wooden posts and hits the grass at a roll, sliding onto her elbows and vaulting into a passing dining cart. Miraculously, no one seems to notice. As the cart rolls along, she pulls back the white cloth, scanning for any sort of getaway. Like a bush or the girth of a particularly wide man — eventually she sells herself on somersaulting into another dining cart because this first one seems to be getting too close to the gravesite for her liking.

Within seconds, her ride gets bumpy, steel wheels clattering against tiled floor. The cart stops and Kim hears the squeaky shoes sounding off in a hurry. She peeks from the white to see the waitstaff boy shrink down the hallway. A door slams and another one opens. Kim sneaks one last peek before disappearing fully behind the cloth.

Two pairs of feet. One set elephantine, loafers. The other set thin and lithe, patent leather shoes. First voice is a deep grumple, the second high and peppy.

"I'm a little disappointed in your research, Hank," the larger man mumbles between sips of red wine. "For a man so tacky and unsuccessful in his villainy, this is quite the production."

"Mm, actually I'd go as far to say that this party is tacky," the thinner man retorts, his voice a little distracted. "A little predatory for my liking. Any minute now, Senior's brat or that Rockwaller kid will pop out and offer us a job or something…"

Kim leans back in the cart, mouth clamped shut. This is _definitely_ Big Daddy Brotherson and his longtime Villainy Consultant, Hank Perkins. Two of the absolute worst people to bump into right now…

A tanned hand peels through the cloth and gently lifts it up, Hank Perkin's dry eyes peering past the white. "Ah, well speak of the Devil…"

"Rockwaller?" Big Daddy titters.

"Close. Different kind of snoop, though," Hank holds out a hand for Kim to take, not really leaving her many options. She snags it, though she hardly needs his wiry arms to get back to her feet.

Big Daddy Brotherson looks like the same man he's always appeared as: gelatinous, bald, wrinkled, yet ungodly calm. The thick brown beard and 'stache are a welcome addition though.

Hank Perkins on the other hand looks like something else entirely. His once lushious brown locks have dwindled into a vastly receded hairline. Several wrinkles under and around the eyes, the brown orbs sparking as if they are plugged into a well maintained socket. Still very cute though, especially with the gray slacks that pull up past the ankles and reveal his silly, argyle socks.

"Kim Possible, Big Daddy. Big Daddy, Kim—"

"We've met," Big Daddy says curtly, extending a thick hand for Kim to take. "If you're here to investigate us, there's really nothing for you to be looking — "

"Oh please!" Hank laughs, throwing a lithe arm around Kim's shoulders, knuckle hitching to her collarbone. "Investigate _us_? Perish the thought, Big Daddy, we're small timers."

Big Daddy rolls his eyes. "I suppose. You look — nice, Possible."

Finally the two shake hands. Hank leers over the two as if he's been hired to supervise. He tilts his chin a little and adds, "You trying to impress someone, Kim?"

"Possible will be fine, thank you," Kim clips, shrugging Hank off of her. Truthfully, she has dressed well but it's a little annoying that it's _noticeable_. She was aiming for subtle seductress. Spitting a hair from her face, she turns a watchful eye to Hank. "Is my makeup still good?"

"No," Hank says very fast. "You look like you just did some parkour — ah, yes. You did, didn't you? To avoid — "

"Ugh," she groans. "Stop."

"No, go on," Big Daddy grins, wrapping a thick arm around Hank's spindly shoulders. "I'm sure you've heard, but I _like_ silly games. Especially between lovers."

A very not subtle blush stampedes to Kim's cheeks. "Am I that transparent?"

"Yes," Hank and Big Daddy's heads tilt together, Hank quickly sliding down the man's arm and back to Kim, taking her hand with two of his, drifting her touch to his chin where he smiles eagerly.

"Allow me to lend you a hand."

And that's how Kim Possible wound up letting Hank Perkins fix her makeup.

It is exceedingly rare for her to dress up. Mostly meaning that she doesn't wear dresses. But Bonnie's a girl that makes her want to wear dresses. So she does.

Very high school of her, but it's what was going on in her chest when she briefly asked the jet pilot to reroute so she could perform a quick fast change. It's a deceiving get-up, expensive only on the surface level when in reality each piece was plucked from the jam-packed racks in Goodwill over the course of years.

A sleeveless black dress, hem hovering just above the knees, the legs decked out in pantyhose gray enough to mask out the occasional scrape and bruise, though not strong enough to hide the bulging calf muscles. Same for the long black gloves. While they reach past the elbow, the showing cut of flesh between cuff and shoulder is thick enough to be just a little intimidating. Despite all the constriction, her chest at least gets to breathe for once, not packed away into a sports bra as per usual.

She only ever dresses like this when on the clock and in disguise to fit into some place she needs to schmooze at. So when she chews her lip in the face of her reflection, she feels somewhat unsure. The flats she refused to give up over heels aren't really helping with that. It's as if she's playing dress-up or something because this is so fundamentally not her.

Hence why she never fit in at Global Justice; all those guys do is work their bones 'til they bleed so they can land a hands-off office gig, where they get paid far more to dress nice and kiss ass.

Hank Perkins wedges himself between her and the sink, very carefully matching the width of her eyeliner, extending the etches into cute little cat ears. Occasionally he lets up to add a puff of blush to her cheeks.

The bathroom is almost like its own palace. Highly ornate and larger than Kim's entire studio. The mirror is actually lined in gold for whatever reason. Every accessory imaginable neatly arranged along the counter, organized by hue so they're easier to match together. Kim wonders if it is like this for Bonnie's sake if she needs to swoop by, or if it's for the sake of haphazardly put-together guests like herself. With the 1%, you never really know the true motive. Because money comes onto fakers, but such high stakes tend to spawn polar opposite actions. Masters of making the performative appear substantive.

With a fluffy carpet, soft even under beat-up flats, Kim wonders if this bathroom is the standard for the Seniors, or if it's the bare minimum.

"I'm assuming you've done this before," Kim slips out while Hank retracts the eye pencil to sharpen it down for the fourth time between touch-ups.

"Yes," he drawls. "For clients. Villainy Consulting for the kinds of folk I work for tends to really mean Image Consulting. Think of me as a niche version of an actor's manager. Not really what I want for in a career but… I do like being able to see my work."

"Why are you helping me?" Kim asks, a little too direct. She almost winces at the harsh words.

Hank on the other hand doesn't hesitate. As if people question his motives all the time — well… given his background, that checks out.

"You're a good person, I don't know," he grunts back.

"Oh." Catches her off-guard. "See, where I come from, people on your side of the fence usually lend helping hands in times of need because they expect _favors_ in return."

"Ah," he says dryly. "Yes, my scene does take part in that sort of ballyhoo. But trust me Possible when I tell you that I'm not _that_ predatory. Though, you should probably take a second to understand that..." Hank steps back and spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the glitz and glamour of the upper-crust bathroom. "...this most certainly is."

* * *

It's moments like these that Ron is highly thankful for the ninja training, because already in the past ten minutes he's had so many close encounters with unlikable familiars that he's luckily been able to slip past unnoticed. Ron hates to pass off his old friends and enemies as folks to avoid at all costs, but the tide has definitely pushed deep into the sand this time around and he is not down to try wading in it.

This whole party is wack. Ron's thankful for Kim's hot tip, that he should just follow the dining carts and eventually he'll find Kim holed up somewhere. Because oh man, who pissed in these peoples' Cheerios this morning? Hoo-wee.

Of course, none of this would be an issue if him and Kim just _stuck together_. But he gets it, he's smacking lips with the boy of his dreams whereas the most Kim can muster is pining from afar. Though he won't deny it's a little weird that Kim is so — hung up? on Bonnie. She usually drops crushes faster than Disney turns its bad movies into expanded universes.

Then Ron bumps into Barkin. Totally awkward, and totally on him for spacing out while cruising. He steps back and looks up at the rugged flat top man, actually a little excited about this chance encounter. Ron hasn't seen the dude in literally a decade, seeing how him and Kim have always found something more daring do to check out on the nights of their high school reunions.

But in his jubilance, Ron accidentally flashes Barkin one of those horrible _funny looks_ and bam! The two are immediately back to being on weird terms again.

"Looks like your center held, Stoppable," Barkin grunts, his voice all prickly, fingers riding up his tie and centering it between the lapels. "'Course, maybe if you saved the world just a few more times…" He shrugs. "Eh. Who knows, right?"

Ugh, he hasn't even eaten today and already Ron wants to vom. What is with these people? Why are they always coming in so hot and heavy? Jeez. And Barkin of all people! If he bumped into like — the Cafeteria Lady, the frosty demeanor at least wouldn't carry such whiplash with it. But _everyone_ does this to him and Kim. Mostly Kim though, most people still see Ron as the crazy powerful monkey guy…

"Good talk, Mr. B," Ron tries not to sound too aggravated, but his eyes do narrow into a wince. "Catch ya on the flippity, 'kay?"

Barkin shrugs, and Ron marches off, picking up the pace so he can find Kim sooner. He latches besides the nearest dining cart and tails it, and — turns out Kim gave him bad directions. Kind of.

Vague is a better word, he is _inside_ the mansion now, just not in the right room. The waitstaff slaps several entres off the counter and rolls out, not even turning to shoo Ron out. Heck, if he timed the whole procedure, it'd probably make out to be a world record of — something.

He looks around the kitchen, and takes in all of the heavenly smells.

All around him, vats of tomato sauce, simmering, popping spicy aromas into the air. Ron slips into the center of the eight pots and closes his eyes. _This_ is good cooking. God, he misses this… back when Kim and him actually had money _and_ time.

Now they've got neither.

But this really brings him back. After high school, Ron actually learned a ton about cooking and it's not like he doesn't use any of that knowledge nowadays — he does; it's just for rice and beans now. Slow cooking all day e'ery day.

Ugh.

In front of him is a wooden cutting door, adorned by several obscene pink balls of meat. Likely to become meatballs. His mouth waters at the sight of them — he hasn't eaten meat in forever, not out of choice or anything. Kim and him went vegan a while back — partially because of the health benefits (think of all the dirty junk that ends up in these animals before they're slaughtered for fast food) and partially because they save a lot of money skimping out on meat and dairy.

Still, he finds himself slipping on a pair of plastic gloves. He grabs the balls, fingers digging into the curvatures every so slightly, but not too deep — they're densely packed. From the smell of them, probably with breadcrumbs, onion, and pepper. Well molded, and Ron respects that. But that does not stop him from juggling.

Ron throws the raw meat into the air, singing loudly. "Mama Mia, Pizzeria!" Ancient memories… back when cooking was _fun_. Thank God Will lets him crash and mooch sometimes. But that's only an option for him, not Kim. Like, how does she get through it?

Well… he does know that. It's called rice n' beans, baby.

Suddenly knives! Thousands of them!

They soar through the air and slice right through the raw meat, splintering each ball into little bitlets of meat that ran around Ron, neatly falling into the tubs all around him. Ron screams and slaps his hands over his face, the knives nailing the wall behind him, each blistering impact knocking a year off his lifespan.

"All the power in the world and that's still your defense?" a nasally voice declares from across the kitchen.

Great, another person pooping all over his character, who could this one be? Well, Ron only knows one person who has a voice that sounds _that_ nerdy.

Sure enough it is Ned. Yes. _That_ Ned. From Bueno Nacho. Looking as stern and judgey as always. Though unlike Ron's ever present freckles, Ned's have been replaced by worn skin wracked with scars. His springy hair is the same, just with gray streaks running through it. He leaps over the counter with grace and lands in front of Ron, very stiffly holding out a pale hand.

"Um…" Ron eyes Ned nervously. "Long time no see, buddy?"

"Oh, _now_ I'm your buddy? I thought I was just a common wage slave to you," Ned sighs, retracting his hand before Ron can snag it, rubbing it off with a hand towel. "Please don't touch my kitchen."

"You — you made all this, Ned?" Ron raises an eyebrow. "Whoa! Dude! This is amazing! Sorry I goofed, I just — it brought back some old memories of um — um — me and Kim when we — uh — " He catches Ned's dead-eyed stare and cans it. " — ahem. Nevermind. But yeah, so did you like, cater this party?"

"Party? Someone's dead, Ron," Ned sighs. "And no, not catering. I'm _family_."

Ugh. Foot? Meet mouth.

Ned grabs a slotted spoon and gently gives each pot three clockwise whirls. "See, sometimes people see potential in their friends and help them out when they need a hand."

Ron blinks. Takes a second for him to catch that jab.

But Ned continues on with a shrug. "Eh, whatever. _Old memories_, right?"

Ron furrows his brow. Not cool. "Ned, what are you talking about, dude? What did you want me and KP to do? Give you a freakin' job at Global Justice Cafe because I gotta say, the benefits are worse than — "

"Do you know how many times _my_ Bueno Nacho got torn to pieces because of your antics?" Ned say very coldly, but with, as they say, service with a smile. "Don't worry about it, Ron. I'm under _new management _now." His lips scrunch into themselves, making an ugly fold in his chin while he rolls his vowels.

Ron's eyes trail down Ned's neck and to his chest. For whatever reason, Ron just assumed that Ned was in some kind of chef's outfit but no — he's decked out in a crisp black suit with burgundy flourishes. Very vintage of Ned, and decidedly not themed after the Mexican flag.

Ned drags the towel off his sleeves, revealing a large, honkin' knife in his rough hands. He twirls it about in these fancy figure eight spins, his eyes glued to Ron all the while. His canines lift his upper lip into an ugly smile. "I'm assuming you didn't stop by to say hi, right? You're looking for Kimberly Ann?"

"Ew, don't call her that," Ron scratches his neck. "But yeah, pretty much. Sorry dude."

"Tsch," Ned walks on past, "Down the hall. Three doors down, listen for Hank Perkins' voice."

* * *

Ron is in some kind of bad mood. Something to do with him accidentally giving Barkin another one of his infamous funny looks paired with Ned and Felix turning into the biggest of jerks. Kim doesn't really know, she guesses she's kind of lucky that her encounter with Big Daddy and Hank ran a lot smoother than she would have imagined.

Kim spaces out while Ron rambles on about all these goons, wondering if her chance encounter only went well because she… behaved — or if she just got lucky. Kind of a mean thought, but Ron does tend to get disgruntled faster than her. Honestly, probably a good thing. For him that is. She feels so fake when she's able to so easily sink in.

"Oh hey, Nakasumi-san, are you going to dunk on me and Kim, too?" Ron suddenly growls.

Kim stops in place and glances down to see the stalwart Nakasumi gazing up with a raised eyebrow. His wrinkled lips part for just a second before closing, and he motions for Miss Kyoko to bend down for him. While he whispers into her ear, Kim elbows Ron in the gut.

"Ow!" he yelps.

"Ron, amp down," Kim seethes. "I know you're having a rough time but there's no reason to — "

"Nakasumi-san wishes for you to know that there will be no _dunking_ in this conversation unless you choose for that," Miss Kyoko doesn't even bat an eye. Though Nakasumi-san does; he winks in-fact.

"Sorry, dude," Ron shakes his head. "Rough crowd today — hey, uh, Miss Kyoko, don't you think Kim's eyeliner looks good?"

Kim blushes when the conversation weirdly turns to a dialog on how Kim should try to pretty up more often. She knows Ron means well it's just like — so not her. It almost makes her want to run off and wash the gunk off.

"You know…" Nakasumi-san grins, the aggravated flash in his eyes now waned. "It's funny that we should bump into each other. I've been getting robbed as of late, and I can't help but wonder if it is one of my competitors turning towards the illegitimate."

Nakasumi-san's selective fluency in English would normally throw Kim and Ron off, given that it's been fourteen years since they last met up, but something about his relaxed posture brings them all back to that moment on the private jet plane. As if they are still sixteen.

"If you are looking for work, I'd gladly hire you two."

Ron raises an eyebrow. "...to?"

"Two? Yes. Two of you."

"Oh, I caught that. I meant you're hiring us two to…"

"Tu tu?"

"Oy vey. Um. Let me try again: What are you hiring us to do?"

It's still bizarre to see Ron get so brass tacks about things. Though when it does go down, it's usually when he's in Kim's peripherals as opposed to a face-to-face. As if he can't do it when making eye contact.

"To do whatever it is you two do to stop crime," Nakasumi-san blurts out, almost in a panic.

And there's the red flag. Ron raises his hands to the air before Kim can jump in, and honestly she's thankful that he's got the initiative in him now.

"Nakasumi-san, with all due respect, if you're looking for a 13th Anniversary Reunion Concert, the flash shows aren't really our regular bag. That's like on an as needed basis."

Nakasumi-san's face drops, clearly the guy is like everyone else in the world in that he wants to see the crazy action/adventure stuff. But Ron's not bluffing, they only go nutso gunzo now when they get runners like Motor Ed; Kim and Ron are smarter now and generally steps ahead of anyone on their corkboard.

Kim pats Ron's arm and he briefly pulls out of the conversation to smile at her, before returning eye contact to Miss Kyoko while they go over logistics. Stuff like rates, travel, lodging, the boring stuff Wade used to figure out.

Meanwhile, in Kim's distracted stupor, she catches someone's eye and and immediately becomes entranced. How could she not? It's Bonnie Rockwaller, and she looks _really_ good in pinstripes. The whole purpose of even making a production out of this drab affair.

So she steps away from the trio without even so much as a _Sorry, be back in a second_.

In the old days of Team Possible, she'd have to bite her tongue. But Ron knows enough now that it's okay for her to have lapses in judgment like this.

The pinstripes bellow down the blazer and mesh perfectly alongside the pants, as if it's all one piece of clothing. The get-up is perfectly tailored for Bonnie's lithe form, the pants straddling her waist, unafraid to hold back the curves further accentuated by the stripes.

Still a ragged brunette though. No matter how high she is on any given food chain (be it high school bullies or major crime families…) she always keeps it a little scrappy.

Bonnie tilts her fedora up, brim just passing her eyes, and she smirks. Though when her teal eyes really fall into Kim's green ones, the smirk hesitates. Just for a moment, but it's still long enough to be captured. Her lips momentarily part, hand dropping from the hat and entrenching itself deep in her pocket, the pants bunching up at the hip.

"K," she nods, taking on a longer gait, landing in front of Kim within seconds.

"B," Kim smiles wryly, grabbing the one bare spot along her pink arm, knuckle almost running across Bonnie's chest when in such close proximity. "You holding up okay?"

Bonnie freezes, eyes rolling into an upward swoop up the curvature of her own suit. Kim's eyes unconsciously follow along, taking in the sheer splendor of the get-up; someone in mourning would be wearing a dress, perhaps with a veil. This suit isn't like at all, it's almost like she's brandishing the power she can now leverage. Like she can hardly wait for everyone to discover the next part of the story.

But when Bonnie's eyes return to Kim, she's not smiling, no, there's this deeply entrenched fold under her right eye, and it hits Kim like a punch to the gut. The red head grits her teeth and leans back to her right foot.

Kim wants to say something but maybe it's better to save her breath here. Maybe it's too late to help this person. Maybe they'll end up on opposite sides of the law again, and when they cross each other like this again, there won't be time for such intimacy.

But then something catches Bonnie's eye and she lurches forward, almost tripping on her stilettos. She scoops off her fedora, hair remaining impressively still against the movement, and she takes on a more somber expression, hat waving in the air, passing over Kim's head and gently pressing itself against her shoulder blades.

Bonnie's other arm comes from under Kim, massaging a spot on her upper back while her face dips past Kim and buries itself in her shoulder.

Kim feels so warm she's afraid Bonnie might feel her accelerating heartbeat. But as fast as it begins, it ends, with Bonnie tossing the hat high into the air. She swings back, hip popped against her pocketed hand, the hat falling over her head, brim just covering the eyes. As if nothing happened. Hard reset.

But that doesn't change anything; Kim can still see the miserable fold along Bonnie's cheek, no matter how much the woman's flawless skin tries to make that grieving into a phantasm; Kim still knows how this woman really feels.

"Hey BonBon," a gruff voice calls out and finally, the fold disappears completely.

"Don't call me that, Brick," Bonnie sneers, jaw almost cracking itself in contempt.

Kim barely notices the burly man shoulder checking her as he passes by, and it does take a moment for her to put two and two together on this one. It's not until the blondie rests both of his big paws on Bonnie's sloped shoulders and she swipes both hands up, chopping him in the wrists to knock him off her, for Kim to realize that this is Brick Flagg.

And like everyone else at this party, Brick is dressed in a three piece suit. Still with the bangs, almost as if he never grew up.

Brick bows so deeply inward that it's unclear if it's done as a parody of her wants, made more ambiguous when his left hand twirls through the air and freezes high above him. "_Milady_," he announces between gritted teeth.

Bonnie scoffs as if she too, were back in high school, and tilts her fedora over her widow's peak. "Nice try. It's _Queen._" She says it more to Kim than she does to Brick. "Why are you bothering me right now, Brick? It's a funeral not — "

Brick cocks his head to the side, flashing those pearly whites. " — it's _family_."

Bonnie's eyebrows rise high. "Already? Ugh. Very well." Her hand lifts from her pocket, daintily waiting for Brick's arm. "Show me."

* * *

When Bonnie Rockwaller enters what was once her father-in-law's office, she immediately finds it disturbed by the arguing of fools. Villains are seated all over, many of them at each other's throats, and of course Junior isn't doing anything to settle things over. Bonnie contains the entirety of her temper into one eyebrow twitch, and struts across the rug and over to the biggest commotion: Monkey Fist and Professor Dementor.

Ridiculous.

Bonnie stops herself from crossing past the table and instead grips the headboard to the wooden chair, twisting it so she falls straight into it. She pulls out a cigarette from her breast pocket, and nods towards Felix, who without looking away from the ruffians offers Bonnie a lighter.

The tip of the cigarette glows a soft orange, flares creeping between fastly graying ash. She twists the cigarette away from her thin lips and lets the smoke trail towards the ceiling. She then crosses her legs and waits.

Monkey Fist is the first to look down to her, wide nostrils taking in an exaggerated whiff of her smoke. "Do you mind, Rockwaller?" He looks over to Junior, the 'new' Head of the Family. "Junior, would you please?"

"Yes Junior," Bonnie drawls, head twisting from one spot to the next. "_Would you please?_"

"Yes my love," Junior whimpers, rising from his chair and promptly exiting the room without ceremony. It's the quieter folks who catch the turning tide, Monkey Fist of course trailing on their coattails. He snorts, his condescension morphing into something more begrudging.

Bonnie checks her audience; this was all supposed to happen later, with plates served. Already, things are disorganized and far removed from her father-in-law's handling.

But still, a fair amount of people have arrived: Monkey Fist, Professor Dementor, Duff Killigan, DNAmy, Gil, Camille Leon, Falsetto Jones… though no signs of Lucre. More importantly, no signs of Doctor Drakken or Shego. Highly unsatisfying, and once again, unlike her father-in-law, she's failed to match the prestige.

Very frustrating, giving his infuriating commitment to made up rules regarding villainy. For so long, she watched him squander and now…

Monkey Fist crosses his arms over his well-tailored suit, charcoal gray with crimson flourishes in the vest and bow-tie. His face is as gaunt as ever, though clearly aged, hair now an ugly matt of gray. "I don't understand why we're being summoned. I have better things to be doing than hanging around your kind."

"Ha!" Bonnie shrieks, voice quickly retracting into a drawl. "_Better things to be doing_, that's rich. Ron Stoppable sacrificed his powers a few years back and you returned from the dead."

A twitch in Monkey Fist's long face, and also a frown; he likely didn't know that was the reason he was resurrected. What a fool.

"Logically, you'd be bigger than ever, Monty," Bonnie checks her fingernails. "Though I haven't noticed even the slightest difference in your… trajectory."

Monkey Fist snorts again, but manages to restrain himself past that.

Bonnie's neck twists to face Dementor, and she maintains the same drawl, this time allowing her mouth to cut higher up the cheek, her teeth gleefully pressing together. "And _you_, second fiddle to a mad scientist who's not even that mad anymore. Like, since when has _Doctor Drakken_ been relevant? Yet you still live in his shadow."

Bonnie looks over the table again. Odd how all these villains are formerly members of Possible's rogue gallery. She's not sure if that's nostalgic or depressing. Either way, it's highly telling.

She takes another drag from her cigarette. She has nothing for the rest of this crowd, so she saves her breath. "Renton… where's Lucre?"

Felix wheels himself back into a dark corner besides a tray of drinks, decidedly not seated at the long table from the rest of them. "Arrested. Ron slipped and told me."

"Hmph," Bonnie grumbles. Great. So that means she actually _didn't _invite Kim, and the rat just swiped an invite from one of her people. Absolutely wonderful. Her cigarette falls from her lips and taps against the ashtray on her armrest. "So we'll be needing a new accountant — oh, Hank Perkins. I want him, Renton, set the meet." She furrows her brow. "Now tell me about Drakken and Shego?"

"You vant those two? After vhat they did to our community?! Saving the vorld — pah!" Dementor waves his pathetic little baby hands in the air for emphasis. "Besides, dey are both off-the-grid nowv. For somevon as powverful as yourself, I don't know how you didn't — "

"Off-the-grid is the vaguest term for what they do," Felix spits out abruptly, dry eyes not bothering to interrupt their scan over the room. "Those two are special agents for Global Justice. My understanding is they're new jobs are the talk of the town, _interesting_ you didn't hear word. Besides, _Bonnie,_" he leans deep back into his chair so that he can just Bonnie in her peripherals. "I did as you suggested and gate-crashed one of their missions seeing how they didn't want to do a meets. I gave 'em an offer they couldn't refuse… but…"

Bonnie's eyes narrow. "...everyone has a price, Renton, we just didn't name it. Do you all understand why you are seated at _my _table or must I explain it?"

The room becomes oddly quiet. Bonnie growls and leans deep into her chair, legs kicking high enough to prop themselves on the table. Brick steps closer, hands outstretched in the case that she falls. "In one way or another, my Father has granted you his kindness…"

"Pah!" Monkey Fist snorts, rushing to his feet. "_Father._ Pah! If you are really his _committed _daughter, then I must be a monkey's uncle!"

"Hey! Watch it!" Felix shouts, voice deep. Something about his eyes gives Monkey Fist pause, who promptly lets his smirk melt back into the more standard sneer.

Bonnie whips her hair to the side, hands clutched tight to the armrest. It's tense. She gets why Don Corleone always had his cat in his lap. Something for the hands to do. She drops her heels to the floor and very slowly allows her chair to tilt back into an upright position. She absently scratches her cheek.

"My Father died never having asked for any of you to return the favor back, probably because he was sweet and enjoyed his Spinning Tops of Doom more than — with all due respect — having _actual power_. Now perhaps you knew that would be the case, you thought you could receive our good graces and never look back. But now that I have resumed the mantle…

"... I expect your loyalty."

* * *

"Agents Possible and Stoppable, it's been too long!"

Ron looks up from Kim's back, where he's been lowkey massaging her, and tries to blink away any possible chance of him slamming someone with one of his cursed funny looks.

Doctor Betty Director, wrapped tightly in an old-school military coat adorned with various medals, stretches out a gloved hand towards her former pupils. Kim takes the hand first and gives it a shake back, albeit half-heartedly.

Ron slips forward and does the same before it gets weird. "Hey Bets," he says in a hurry, and then inadvertently slams her with the cursed funny look. "Are you hanging with your brother right now?"

Gemini nods at him from several yards back, metal hand clutching a very tall glass of red wine. Ron quickly nudges Kim in the ribs, whispering into her ear. "_I'm gonna run off and snag some food to bring back with us._"

"_Give this at least two minutes_," she shoots back, though she does it with her eyes. "So I heard Drew and Sheila have assumed our old jobs."

Betty's eyebrows shoot up and for a second, it looks like she's about to snap. "That's classified," she keeps it to a whisper. "You know better than to talk about that in public — and how exactly did you — "

Kim grabs Ron by the bicep fast. "Will didn't say a thing F-Y-I. He's actually been very tight lipped about work stuff — "

" — and a whole ton of other things — " Ron grumbles.

" — we just figured it out because we're _smart_," Kim offers.

A moment passes and Betty's gritted teeth finally melt into something softer. "Well done then. Though I wish you didn't mention it, things have been kind of hectic and if you two are smart enough to figure it out then perhaps — "

"I told you they needed new codenames," Gemini groans, stepping out from behind and mechanically shaking Kim and Ron's hands.

"Calling both of them Agent Alpha is stupid," Betty shakes her head.

"Oh yeah?" Gemini chuckles bitterly. "Good luck calling one of them _Beta_ then."

Sparks fly so Kim quickly slips between them — a little over-the-top, but back in her GJ days she had to defuse a lot of shouting matches over Skype between the two. "So — what brings you two here? Friends of the family?"

Gemini leans forward. "Family or _family?_"

"What?" Ron blurts out before anyone can say anything.

Gemini frowns, apparently deeply hurt. "I said — like — like regular ol' family and, um — crime family."

"Huh," Ron scratches his neck. "Well, when you say the same word twice like that it makes you sound really dumb, dude."

"Ron!" Kim almost slaps Ron in the face, but instead nails him in the bicep.

"Well, I emphasized one word so I think that shouldn't count as a violation of your dummy dumb dumb rule," Gemini pouts.

Betty herself seems like she's retracting a slap at her brother. "Anyways," she announces sharply. "I'm friends of the family — " Off Ron's annoyed glance she tacks on, " — like the regular old fun family — and Sheldon here is friends with the evil organized crime family."

"Ah," Ron slicks back his hair and aims a finger gun at Betty. "Solid explanation." He gives his little gin and tonic a spin with the straw, then taps it against the rim. "I'm gonna beat it for a sec and — "

"Dearest friends and family," an obnoxiously high-pitched voice that could only belong to Señor Senior Jr. broods over the microphone system. "Today, we celebrate the most beautiful of beautiful (older) men in the world… my dearest Father. A moment of silence please."

"Perfect," Ron cheers under his breath, and twists away to grab some free grub when Kim's hands suddenly ensnare him by the shoulders.

"Ron," she chides. "Timing."

"Ugh. Why, Kim? Why?"

Kim doesn't say anything, just stares at him while everyone (but them really) takes a respectful moment of silence. Though at some point, Kim's eyes do wander off, probably in search of Bonnie. Though even she isn't too sure of that. Or any of her motivations to being here really.

"Before I give my big speech, everyone, I would like to call Ron Stoppable to the stage!" Junior announces.

Ron drops his glass so suddenly that the shattering actually picks up on the microphone even from a hundred feet away.

"I am told he made a surprise guest appearance today," Junior explains. "I can only assume so for he was the one to directly inspire my father towards villainy. He saw the best in him, and made him, and myself too, who we stand as today. Thank you Ron Stoppable."

The courtyards erupts in applause while heads swivel about, looking for Ron, who quickly crouches behind Kim like a true ninja.

"Kim, do I have to?" he squeaks.

"Yes," Kim rolls her eyes. "Don't worry, you're good at improv. I'll snag the free food if it will help you."

Immediately Ron brightens up.

"Okay-diddly-diddly!" he cheers, running off to the stage.

* * *

Ron's speech sucks.

Like, for a guy who got a B- on American Starmaker with his own original song, you would think he would be a bit more eloquent on a stage talking about something important. But it actually winds up being the worst thing ever.

Even if Kim were to stick around and hear him out, occasionally giving him a thumbs up from the crowd, it wouldn't help because it's already too late; he _knows_. He's giving his classic tells — the blinks, the wheezes, the itches.

So Kim spends most of her time containing expensive food and sauces between sealed dishes, shoveling them into her purse. Everyone is too memorized recording Ron off of their phones for them to notice the famous Kim Possible pilfering the Seniors blind.

Not that it matters in the grand scheme of it, more food has been produced than could possibly be eaten. Though very little of it is vegan. She does pick up one tray of cocktail meatballs that would be easy to stuff away, but struggles with whether she should take it or not.

On one hand, Kim and Ron barely have _any_ money. People assume they are well-off, but most of their jobs they take on are for people who have little to no resources and can't afford to pay them — and Kim's not the kind of person to turn someone in actual need down. That's never gone away.

The other problem being that folks like Nakasumi-san assume that Kim and Ron don't do payment like the old days and then get all pissy when they ask for money — usually ending the gig's price with a major low ball. Which is probably what just happened seeing how glum Ron was when he returned to her after her little Bonnie confrontation.

Speak of the Devil…

"_What have I ever done for you treat me so disrespectfully_?"

The row of celery sticks and carrots rain into the purse, falling neatly into the cracks between taped together plates.

Bonnie grins, strutting towards Kim in long strides. For a moment, Kim's eyes drift past Bonnie's shoulder and she sees a rather large section of her Rogue's Gallery exiting a room from behind Bonnie.

Kim steels herself. "What happened to you Bonnie?"

Bonnie's grin gets sharper, one hand sliding onto Kim's hip, the other grappling her purse, fingers pushing against the rod shaped bumps in the faux leather. "What happened to _you_?"

Kim bows her head, forehead grazing Bonnie's. "I miss you."

"You're not answering my question."

"You didn't answer mine, figured it'd be fair game."

"Ha," Bonnie adds dryly. "You know, if you think your stinkin' boyfriend's speech is bad, you should leave before Junior starts talking because it's even_ less _rehearsed."

Kim almost growls, but under Bonnie's touch it exits her mouth more as a purr. "He's not my boyfriend. We broke up."

"Oh, I know you broke up," Bonnie's hand slides down the hip and onto the thigh, gripping a particularly enticing slab of flesh. As Kim's cheeks light up, Bonnie draws closer. "And I know he's dating Willie Du or whatever — but I figured you jumped in on that and made it a poly thing. You've always been just so…" Squeeze. "... clingy."

Kim frowns, hips pressing tightly against Bonnie's pelvis. "Can we try again?"

Bonnie raises an eyebrow. "You know where we stand right now."

"What? With you trying desperately to _not_ fuck me?" Kim grins and finally they take two respectful steps backwards. "Let me guess, _we can't Kim. Do you understand why we're even here today?_"

Bonnie nearly grimaces, but plays it into a smirk fast, tilting the brim past her eyes again. "Something like that, yes. You want to have fun, call me, but _this_ cannot happen when you wear a badge."

"I'm not wearing a — "

"No, you quick changed," Bonnie rolls her eyes. "But Naco McGee still has his on, in the breast pocket at least, but you should talk to him about that. Metal imprints still show through the cheap lining your crappy coats are made out of."

"Bonnie…"

Bonnie waves a hand through the air, and reaches into her jacket. The red lips of a rose slowly shift between the lapels and dangle in the air, Bonnie's fingers carefully wrapped between the thorns. "For you."

Kim eyes the rose for a long time, eyes nearly crossing against each other. Tentatively, her hand hovers into the air, fingers looping around the steam, joints pressing tightly against Bonnie's. Slowly, Bonnie's hand pulls away, leaving thin lines of sweat along Kim's.

Kim brings the rose to her face and takes in its scent: still fresh. She smirks and carefully pinches off the thorns, sliding the steam through her thick locks. All the while, Bonnie's sharklike teeth clench, eyes hungry, bobbing up and down with the bounce of Kim's arms.

Kim purses her lips and allows the faintest of smiles.

"Thank you."

* * *

Never _ever_ again will Ron spend his time coalescing an elderly man towards the pathway of evil, for if the second most evil thing Señor Senior Sr. did was start his infamous crime family, then the most evil thing he did was dying. Dying during a timeline where it for some reason makes sense to entrust Ron Stoppable and his stumbly wumbly rhetoric with the old man's legacy.

When Ron finally moves away from the podium, he half-expects someone to shoot him off from the Grassy Knoll. But alas, he is forced to make the walk of shame past all the familiar faces.

Quickly though, especially upon seeing Kim, who for whatever reason is positively _glowing_, he recovers. Junior's chipmunk squeaks into the microphone are like a weirdo version of ASMR and he relaxes, slipping an arm around Kim's shoulders.

"Kim, you know you are my best friend, I'd appreciate it if you save laughing your ass off at me for later when — "

"Ron." Kim gently lifts Ron's hand off her shoulders and looks at him very seriously. "If I was listening to your speech, trust me, I wouldn't be cheesing; do you see this?" She flicks a finger against one of the petals.

Ron eyes the rose for a long time. "Don't tell me that's all you scrounged up for dinner tonight…"

A half hour later, once Junior finally finishes reading the 'poetry' he wrote the night of his father's passing (though Ron personally feels Junior took advantage of the term _free verse_ a little too liberally) the crowd neatly gathers into one long lines, Felix wheeling alongside the attendants and organizing them into something easy.

Ron is _really_ not about this, but Kim makes him stand in line for appearances. Though the line of drab gray and black trails so long, it's hard to tell what they're even waiting for. All he knows is that the _family_ sits together besides the gravesite. Junior, Gemini, Dementor, Killigan, DNAmy, Gil, Falsetto Jones, Ned, Brick Flagg, Camille Leon, and worst of all…

Monkey Fist. Because y'know, the guy just _had_ to show up and make it all about him, right?

Oh, and Bonnie's there too.

She sits at the front, elbows jammed against her thighs, hands tightly clasped together, eyes peeking past the knuckle, almost daring folks to pull something wild.

Ron half-expects someone in this little gang of bullies to start punching their palm and making slicey-throat gestures at him, but the atmosphere thankfully remains somber.

About ten minutes into waiting, Ron starts looking around to see what people are doing after… um… making it to the end of the line? He does notice Felix off in the distance, perfectly silhouetted by the falling sun, shaking hands with a tall, springy figure that — oh whoa, Hank Perkins lost a lot of hair, wow.

Eventually, they make it to the end. It is unnerving to be standing so close to this gang of bullies. Again, Grassy Knoll… Ron spaces out for a second wondering if Kim would Jack Ruby for him, but then shakes it off. Not good thoughts.

"Oh," Kim's breath is soft but it still drops from her lips like a ton of bricks.

Senior's tomb runs deep into the ground, the casket lying at the bottom. On top of it lies a whole bushel of roses. Ron was hoping that maybe they'd be doing the Jewish thing, and shoveling a li'l dirt into the hole but nope. Just flowers.

Kim pinches the stem, plucking the rose from out of her air, spinning it around before extending her arm over the hole. Her eyes drift above the red and linger on Bonnie for a moment. On Bonnie, the one who may have a good poker face but can't help but show sheer delight at _winning_.

This is no ceremony to it. The rose just drops from Kim's fingers and falls on top of the bushel like the rest of them. Another second passes, and Kim turns back to Ron. Her face is remarkably smooth, so much so that Ron flinches.

Just another thing that they will probably never talk about it… he has no idea how she just turns on a dime like that sometimes.

But then he winds up being wrong, the grief leaves the face, but her voice sounds strangled.

He whispers to her with some urgency, "KP, I don't have a rose."

She shrugs. "Well, it was from both of us I guess."

She takes Ron's hand and begins to drag him away, when she freezes in place. Her heel kicks up, toe grinding into the grass and dragging back a little patch of dirt, kicking it into the grave. It plumes into dust, sandy brown raining onto the pool of red.

Felix rolls up, as if on cue, and stares Kim down with an unfamiliar dark look. But she moves on, carrying Ron with her, pulling him to her hip.

It's all very surreal, and he's not really sure what to do. Until he sees her purse and remembers his ulterior motive.

"So what did you manage to snatch off the tables? Looks hefty."

"Oh," she rummages through it. "Hey, do you think if we ate these meatballs I grabbed that we'd be responsible enough to _not_ go back to eating meat?"

Ron looks away, jaw working into itself in deep concentration. "Good call, KP, but yeah, I trust myself. Dog's gotta eat, right?"

Kim giggles and twirls him to face her, just as her lips plow into his. But before anything gets inappropo, she reels back, a carrot bridging the gap between her mouth and his. A loud _SNAP!_ and the veggie cracks in two, each of them left with an equal piece. He almost spits his out from laughter.

"God, I love you so much, Kim," Ron wipes a tear away.

She grins, although it looks hard for her mouth to crack that high up her face. "Right back atchya. Hey, so can you drop the deets on the Nakasumi-san case?"

Ron smiles. Back to basics and all that.

Or so they thought.


End file.
